Page 33

It’s a confusing enigma. But by the time she’s repeating the lines toward the end of the song—singing passionately about her voice haunting an ex-lover—at least one thing has become pretty clear to me. If what she strives for is to leave that kind of impression, I’m afraid she might have already accomplished it with me.

I’m afraid that the sound of her voice will echo in my head long after she leaves my house and we go back to being only the most casual of friends around the inn. Long after she’s flown away from this town.

And that’s yet another reason to keep my distance, to maintain self-control. Because if this woman has already gotten me this fucked up when I haven’t even kissed her, I’m worried it’ll be agony for me if I do get involved with her and then she leaves.

Which she will.

Inevitably.

Once she gets the message from her manager that the crisis is averted and all is clear, she’s going back to Nashville. Back to her life. To the stages and the spotlight.

And I’ll still be here, with the sound of her voice haunting me like a beautifully melodic ghost.

CHAPTER TEN

RILEY

“You’releaningforwardtoomuch,” Andrew says from behind me. “Your knee should be over your ankle, and your hips should be level, with your torso upright.”

I try turning my head to glare at him, but that makes me even more unsteady in my Warrior II pose, so I resort to grunting in response. I didn’t ask to come to this yoga class. Sure, I wanted to hang out with my brother, and when he suggested I join him here because he didn’t want to miss it, I agreed. But I’m not a big yoga person like him.Yogaphite? Yogi?Whatever.

At home, I work out regularly with my personal trainer, of course, because my job requires me to have some strength and stamina. But my workouts don’t typically ask me to be this flexible. My hips have complained and now my quads are burning. I guess it doesn’t help that I haven’t exercised at all since I’ve been here.

I should probably find a local gym to start visiting—if I survive this class.

Studying Andrew’s friend Toby, who’s on the mat on my other side in a lime green crop top and tight spandex shorts, I try to mimic the position he’s holding effortlessly. I see what Andrew means about me leaningforward, and I adjust myself. But there’s no way I can get quite as low as Toby. His thigh is parallel to the ground.

“That’s better,” I hear Andrew say, and I hope that our next position is one that gives me the opportunity to kick him.

Or, even better, I hope our next position is the final one where you get to lie on the ground and play dead. I’m over yoga.

It probably isn’t helping that I can’t concentrate today. Truthfully, I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything since Addison dropped me off at the inn yesterday. My mind keeps drifting back to that evening spent listening to music with her. To playing for her and feeling a high that I’m not sure I’ve gotten from performing in a while.

I was upset about all the negative press that sent me into exile—I still am—but maybe I needed to step back from my career in order to realize that it hasn’t been as fulfilling in the last year or so as it used to be.

My creativity was starting to feel a bit stifled, and I think that’s because everything had become such a routine. Write new songs, work with the same producers, put out an album that sounds pretty much the same as all my previous albums, then go on tour in the same major cities as before.

I felt so lucky getting to live my dream that I never stopped to question if I might want to do anything differently. Until I came here, and now I’ve had nothing but time to question things.

The way Addison looked at me when I sang “Silver Springs,” it was like I can’t even describe. It was different than when I sing my own songs to crowds of people who are shouting all the words with me. I’m proud of my music, of how much fun people have singing along. But having someone sitting only a few feet away paying such close attention, like every word out of my mouth was important, was worth reallyhearing... that felt incredible.

I almost miss the instructor cueing us to come out of the warrior position, and then I have to scramble to catch up when I see Toby transitioning his body smoothly into a new pose. The low lunge isn’t much relieffor my thigh, but we go from there into pigeon pose.

Now my hip is mad at me again, but as soon as I settle into the pose, my mind drifts some more. This time, to waking up yesterday morning in Addison’s house. To coming downstairs and finding her already cooking breakfast for us. To the way she let me fit myself into her space like I belong there and wasn’t just an interloper.

I smile, remembering the domesticity of it. It’s not like I’d rather be a housewife than a musician. But it felt nice having someone to do simple tasks with while we make sleepy morning conversation. All of the small, casual ways Addison touched me as we passed by each other also felt nice. More than nice. But I did my best to ignore themore thanpart.

Somehow, I manage to survive the class, and Andrew, Toby, and I leave together—the two of them with significantly more pep in their step, while I’m dragging my tired muscles along.

When Andrew suggests we all grab lunch at Reed’s, I happily agree, because the idea of sitting down sounds wonderful. And thankfully, the diner is right across the street, so I only need to make it a few more feet before I can do that. It’s fairly busy when we walk in, but we’re able to snag the last open table.

Travis Reed gives us a nod of acknowledgement as he passes by, his arms loaded up with plates. He graduated high school the year before I started, so we weren’t ever friends, but I still know him in the way that everyone knows everyone in Mayweather.

A couple minutes later, he comes over to take our orders, leaving no room for small talk, which tracks with how I remember him. He’s a good guy, but he’s not particularly friendly.

Our food comes out quickly, considering the full diner. As we eat, I ask Toby about his job with the local newspaper,The Mayweather Gazette. He mentions the last few pieces he’s written, though he doesn’t talk about them with much enthusiasm. It’s understandable, I suppose, since being a reporter in Mayweather isn’t exactly high-stakes journalism.

Then Andrew nudges his elbow against Toby’s arm and says, “Tell her about the other stuff you’re writing.”